She jumped back. ‘You are not my husband!’
‘No,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That honour is denied me.’
‘But you were the very image of his Jupiter.’
‘That was the intention,’ said Nicholas, waving another four soldiers onto the stage. ‘I sought to uphold Master Firethorn’s reputation while keeping him from any real harm.’
She was bemused. ‘He had Lawrence’s own voice.’
‘But not his luck in love,’ said Elias with a touch of gallantry, placing a bearded kiss on her hand. ‘Edmund Hoode wrote the words. I but learnt them in the manner of our master.’ Celestial music sounded. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, Jupiter is needed elsewhere.’
With Ganymede beside him, he made his entry.
Margery began to see how the whole thing had been carefully arranged by the book holder. But for her spirited intervention, the flyting match would never have taken place. As it was, she had conquered a worthy foe in place of her husband. She pulled at Nicholas’s sleeve.
‘Where is Lawrence?’ she whispered.
‘He will be here even now.’
‘How did you keep him away from that ruffian?’
‘See there, mistress.’
Lawrence Firethorn was brought into the tiring-house by four strong men who clung on to him for their lives. Costumed as Aeneas, he was palpitating with anger and spitting out curses. On a nod from Nicholas, the actor was released by his terrified captors.
‘Heads will roll for this!’ warned Firethorn.
‘Stand by, sir,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’ll wreak havoc on the whole lot of you.’ He saw his wife. ‘Margery! You have no place here, woman.’
‘I have acted my scene and bowed out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your cue, sir,’ said the book holder.
‘Am I locked in a madhouse?’ growled the actor.
‘Enter Aeneas.’
Music played and personal suffering was put aside. Lawrence Firethorn went out into the cauldron of the action as the cunning Aeneas and dallied with the affections of Dido, Queen of Carthage, as portrayed with winsome charm by Richard Honeydew. Here was the actor as his admirers really wanted to see him, not trading verbal blows with a contentious waterman, but operating at the very height of his powers and thrilling minds and hearts with uncanny skill. Back in the tiring-house, Margery raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Nicholas smiled.
‘All will be explained in time,’ he said quietly.
Sir Lucas Pugsley sat before a daunting pile of judicial documents and sifted slowly through them. Aubrey Kenyon was on hand to give any help and advice that was needed. The Lord Mayor had to preside at all meetings of the city’s administrative courts. As chief magistrate, he had to act as judge, dealing with an enormous range of cases. Everything from petty law-breaking to complex commercial disputes came before him. It was also his avowed task to supervise the conduct of trade in the city and see that it was carried out in accordance with civic regulations. This function of his office often brought him up against the names of his friends.
He studied a new document and gave a wry smirk.
‘Rowland Ashway is arraigned again.’
‘For what, Lord Mayor?’
‘Adulterating his beer. The charge will not stick.’
‘His brewery has a good reputation.’
‘There will always be those who seek to bring a conscientious man down,’ said Pugsley. ‘How can one trust the word of a landlord, I ask you? These fellows pour water into their beer then swear it was done at the brewery so that they may claim some recompense. The law here is nothing but a whip with which a guileful publican can beat an honest tradesman.’
‘Will the case come to court?’
‘Not while I sit in judgement, Aubrey.’
‘That is the third time Alderman Ashway is indebted to your wisdom,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He has aroused much resentment among jealous landlords.’
‘They’ll get no help from me.’ He put the document aside, picked up another then cast that after the first. ‘Enough legality for one day, sir. I sometimes think that London runs on the quibbles of attorneys.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘We have worked hard, Aubrey. I flatter myself that I do the labour of any three men.’
‘At least.’
‘Walter Stanford will not be able to keep my pace.’
‘He may not wish to try, Lord Mayor.’
‘Signs of hesitation?’
‘This death in the family has preyed upon his mind. It has slowed down his steps towards the mayoralty.’
‘That is the best news yet. What of this play?’
‘The Nine Giants?’
‘Is the monstrous piece still promised?’
‘By Gilbert Pike. He has written such plays before.’
‘This will tax his imagination most,’ said Pugsley sourly. ‘Where will they find nine giants among the mercers? Where eight? Five? One?’
‘Richard Whittington must be allowed, sir.’
‘Even so. But do not mention his name to Rowland.’
‘That story still smarts with Alderman Ashway.’
‘And so it should,’ noted the Lord Mayor. ‘When the much-vaunted Whittington sat in my place, he made himself very unpopular with the brewers when he tried to enforce standard sizes for barrels.’
‘He also attempted to regulate the price of beer.’
‘The brewers got no mercy from a mercer!’
Aubrey Kenyon creased his face at the feeble joke and took the opportunity to work in a reminder of a subject that he took very seriously.
‘The noble gentleman did sterling work during his terms of office. He kept the city busy and he kept its citizens well subdued.’ He crossed over to Pugsley. ‘You have not forgotten the public holiday?’
‘This Thursday. Preparations are under way.’
‘A strict hand is a sign of a sound mayoralty.’
‘Then that is what you will get from me, sir. Let others talk of Dick Whittington. If you want discipline and good government, look no further than Sir Lucas Pugsley. On Thursday I will keep a very careful watch.’
It took an hour to pacify Lawrence Firethorn and only the presence of his wife held him back from reviling his whole company. In his opinion, he was the victim of a dreadful conspiracy that could never be forgotten or forgiven. A stoup of wine, a barrel of flattery and the gentle persuasiveness of Nicholas Bracewell finally made him see the true value of the stratagem. Abel Strudwick had been bested, Firethorn’s reputation had been enhanced and the performance of The Queen of Carthage scaled peaks it had never before assayed. There could be no better advertisement for the work of Westfield’s Men.
Warming to it all, Firethorn summoned George Dart to escort his wife back to Shoreditch then he touched on two important issues with the book holder.
‘Has that death’s-head of a landlord signed yet?’
‘I have not spoken with Master Marwood yet.’
‘Give him my compliments and bring him to heel.’
‘Alderman Ashway has much influence.’
‘See that you counteract it, Nick.’ He became secretive. ‘First, I have another errand for you. Deliver this letter to Stanford Place.’
‘Is this sensible, master?’
‘Do as you are bid, sir. The letter is expected and you will present it at the garden gate upon the stroke of five. Someone shall be there to receive it.’
Nicholas was not happy to leave the Queen’s Head when such a vital talk with the landlord was imminent but he could not refuse the commission. He hastened out into Gracechurch Street and headed north towards Bishopsgate. Fine drizzle was now falling out of a pockmarked sky. When he reached Stanford Place, he went around to the garden and lurked beside the gate until the chimes of the clock were heard. Prudence Ling was a punctual gatekeeper and snatched the letter from him with a giggle before hiding it under the folds of her cloak. She also gave the visitor an admiring glance. Nicholas did not waste his advantage.
‘There is sorrow in the house, we hear.’
‘The master’s nephew, sir. Most horribly killed.’